Knitting Needles and Knife Blades
by Lullabee
Summary: Okay, this is about a girl who wait for it DOESN'T want to be a knight! shock, horror, and simultaneous fish impressions! Let the carnage begin... ON HOLD
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, none of this belongs me except maybe the plot. It might not be any good, but I'd prefer it if you didn't take it, cos I'm taking up judo (seriously, I am!)

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I am not clever, or ambitious, or brilliant with a weapon. I do not have any burning desire to become a knight, and rid the world of wrongs, and prove to everyone that girls can be knights as well. I am not beautiful, or even distinctive like the Lioness.

I _can_ wield an embroidery needle better than my mother could, sew passably well, and be the hostess of my father's house. I might not be an amazing swordsman, but I can survive in the back stabbing, harsh world of a Court lady, and even Lady Elressa has come to me for advice on clothes and cloth merchants.

What I'm trying to say is that while I'm not a simpering prinking young noblewoman, I couldn't be as determined as Keladry of Mindelan. I don't have the courage or ambition to do what Alanna the Lioness did. I'm all in favour of women becoming knights, if that's what they want, but it's not what _I_ want.

I hummed as I embroidered the kerchief for Father's Midwinter present, remembering the ball last night, and how Charmine of Tirrsmont and I had sat out _three times_ to watch Faleron of King's Reach dance. He's betrothed to some heiress though, so we watched in vain. (Though to be honest, Charmine's lost her heart to her horses, so it was really me watching Faleron and her keeping me company).

A shadow fell over my work, and I looked up to see Auma, my onetime nursemaid and surrogate mother, standing over me. With a worried expression on her face, Auma bobbed a curtsey.

"Mistress Aria, your father wants you urgently in the library. A letter has just come from Corus." She hesitated then added, "I'd not waste any time, Mistress."

I laid down my embroidery impatiently, then checked myself as I remembered that Father wasn't the type to make a fuss out of nothing. As I hurried through the hallways, I ran through the possibilities. I hadn't done anything awful as far as I knew, and I hadn't been spending too much on what Father and Edwin call geegaws and fripperies.

Perhaps I should explain. Edwin is my brother, my elder by almost eight years. He was knighted three years ago (I was thirteen), and since then he's been posted in the North, keeping Scanrans busy. He's wonderful – Prince Jasson says he'd rather tangle with twenty armed Scanrans than Edwin, and Jasson's one of the best swordsmen of their year. When my friends complain about their brothers, I just don't understand them. If I lost Edwin, I'd feel like I'd lost a father. He's funny, and kind, and generous, and vets all of the boys that come a-calling before he'll let them anywhere near me. That can be annoying, I'll admit, but I'd rather that than him not caring at all.

I gave a small skip as I neared Father's study. It was probably a letter from Edwin, saying he'd be coming home soon. The war was nearly over, everyone said so, and Jasson had asked me to accompany him to the ball that was being given in honour of our soldiers and knights, so likely Edwin would be there and Jasson wanted me to see him as soon as possible. Well, Jasson's been one of Edwin's closest friends since their first year, so he knows how much Edwin means to me. And Jasson was always kind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Knitting Needles and Knife Blades**

**Part 2**

Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, unfortunately, except Arianne. The rest belongs to that great fantasy writer in the sky, Tamora Pierce. Unfair!

As I entered the room, Father looked up. It struck me then how old he looked. He's never looked properly old before. Except when Mother died. I was only little, of course, but I can remember parts. His hair wasn't salt and pepper anymore; it was _grey_, and not a dignified grey. It made him look tired, and old, and weak. As though he had been wounded, but never quite recovered, and then all of a sudden, someone had ripped it open again. When he spoke, his voice sounded tired as well, like he couldn't care about anything much at the moment.

"Arianne, child, come in." That hit me worse than anything. No one, but _no one_, and especially not Father, calls me Arianne. It was my mother's name. _She's_ Arianne, not me. I'm Aria, always Aria, even when people are angry with me.

"Father? Father, what's the matter? What's happened?" I ran to his side, and grabbed the letter he held in his hand. He turned his head away. It was short – only a few lines – written in Edwin's loose, rounded hand. That in itself was strange, for Edwin, though he dislikes letter writing, usually satisfies my wish for long letters.

To Father, Tomorrow we meet Maggur on the Vassa Plain. My Lord of Naxen rides with us. Please tell Aria I am sorry I could not bring her a Scanran war charm – I know she often wished to see one. 

(I blushed at this. It was true, I had expressed a wish to see a Scanran war charm, but never thought Edwin would try to get one for me. I had had a vague idea of using the patterns on an old dress of mine. I had quite forgotten about it by now.)

_If When I come back, I will offer up prayers of thanks to every god I know. They call it seeing the kraken, you know. I rather wish I was blind. All the death…Jarvey of Kanamorth and Raskaan of Ettinsmuir are dead – from a raid three weeks ago. They died of their wounds._

My throat was suddenly dry. I had _known_ Jarvey, flirted with him last Midwinter. And Raskaan had visited us but a few months ago. Both dead.

And that was when I _knew_, really knew what had happened. He was dead. My glorious, shining brother, so full of life, was dead, his glowing hair limp and lifeless, his laughing lips silenced forever. There would be no strong youthful step outside my door, then a head poking around it, ready to show me some little wonder he had found for me. No more offended or embarrassed young men who had hastily ceased their addresses to me after he was through with them. No more brother to pray for each night, and wait for impatiently, or tag around after. No more Edwin.

I heard a keening cry of pain, and wondered who it was. Then I realised it was me – I had not noticed the fat tears rolling down my cheeks, or the hoarse gasping sobs coming from deep within my chest. I stumbled towards Father, and laid my head in his lap. I don't know how long we stayed like that, comforting each other in our grief, but alone, an island separated from the rushing, bustling river of everyday life, flowing into a grey, harsh dawn. I never even finished reading the letter.

For the next year, I lived my life in a sort of numb daze. I couldn't believe it had happened – I didn't _want_ to believe it. I'm not sure I didn't, somehow, believe that it had all been a terrible, ghastly mistake, and one day I would turn around and Edwin would be there, his arms wide, and laughing at me for even thinking that he was gone.

In the end, it was something so small it was almost insignificant, that brought it home to me. I was in the garden, picking flowers for my bed chamber, and I leant right to the back of the bed for a tall one. I leant over too far, and stumbled. When I had picked myself up, I realised that I had fallen onto something hard – a cracked wooden practice sword.

Looking at it, the memory of that hot summer's day almost ten years ago came flooding back.

_I was eight, and Edwin just turned fifteen. He was at home while his Knight Master was visiting Father – they were old friends – and Edwin was revelling in being home again. I, of course, didn't recognise him, being only eighteen months old when he left to be a page. _

_Edwin was practising his sword work in the garden, determined not to fall behind now he was home, even if it was only a visit of a few days duration. I was hiding in the bushes, gawping at this strange new brother who had invaded my home. Intent on the patterns the sword was making in the air, he did not notice me, and I could have sat there for hours, watching him, if he had not suddenly tripped on one of my dolls that I frequently left lying about. The sword flew out of his hand, landing only a few feet away from me, and Edwin, who had been swearing loudly and colourfully, snapped his mouth shut at the sight of me. We stared at each other for a few minutes, brother and sister but total strangers._

_Overcome (I was almost painfully shy then); I blushed and ran back to the house. Later, watching Edwin at his practise again (this time at a safe distance), I saw him hurl the sword in anger into a flower bed when he realised it was cracked, and then go looking for it a few minutes later. I didn't realise then, but he never found it._

I rocked back and forth on my heels, soft, hopeless tears dripping onto the already soft and mouldy wood as I finally laid my brother to rest.

So, that's the second chapter done – which is quite good for me because usually I get bored after the first – but anyway. Please review, because it's really great to know that I DIDN'T SLAVE OVER THIS FOR NOTHING! Take note, all non-reviewers – I will find you, and I will _track you down_. Well, technically I won't, but it sounds good and I've been dying to say it!

Lullabee


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: No, no, I won't say it! You can't make me!

_Ooh, chocolate…no, gimme gimme gimme! _

Okay, you twisted my arm.

I_…don't own…any…of the characters…In…this fic…and Tamora…Pierce…Tamora Pierce DOES!_

Can I have the chocolate now?

It seems strange to me now, but when Edwin died, I realised I had been waiting for it, as all those who are left behind during times of war do. I was as tense as a lute string, ready to snap at any moment, afraid to hope, and terrified not to.

You would have thought it would have been a relief, in a way, that the ever-present fear was gone, but instead it felt as though a vast weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and then replaced with an even greater one.

I suppose I should have realised that that weight would never truly be gone, yet after I found Edwin's sword in the gardens, I threw myself into activity, organising charitable events, visiting friends and relatives, and rejoining the court and its endless round of parties, flirting, balls and dances, and ever-more complicated entertainment for frivolous amusement.

It was at one of these that I fell into conversation – _real_ conversation I mean, not empty flirtatious nothings – with Jasson. Inevitably, the talk eventually moved round to Edwin.

"I'm sorry, of course, but – well, he died bravely."

_He died bravely._ It was an empty phrase, one that seemed to say everything but in fact told me as much as one of my silk stockings would. Yet I was happy with it – no, not happy, but safe. I did not, and had never wanted to, find out what exactly happened. It spared me the horror of imagining his death, over and over again, with no respite. But something in the way Jasson said it made me wonder. He – Edwin, that is – was my brother, my closest companion and friend. And I couldn't even claim to know _where_ he was taken from me. Besides, I had had enough of the safe cocoon of mourning, which protected me as surely as any knight.

"Tell me…" I hesitated. I was not morbid and, vain as I was, did not wish this young man with his wonderfully piercing blue eyes, to think so. But... "Please – what happened?"

He looked up, his face surprised and, I think now, troubled. But then, how much clearer do we see in hindsight?

"You really want to know?"

Oh dear. He thought me a ghoulish girl indeed. But _I had to know_. I had to. Suddenly, it seemed to me as though there was nothing in the world as important as this, that which gave me so much pain.

"Yes. Yes, I do. He – well, you knew him, you knew how close we were. It would mean a great deal to me."

Still he hesitated. Then I realised how inconsiderate I had been.

"No, how foolish of me. He was your best friend – your sorrow is as great as mine. Forgive me."

He looked up, his face suddenly angry. "I assure you that my…grief…is not the reason for my reticence. Nay, my lady of Gersholme, I curse the day I ever laid eyes on your bastard brother!"

Shocked, I recoiled from him, my mind in turmoil. Immediately his expression changed, a look of contrition replacing the distant, angry face of a moment ago.

"Aria, I'm sorry. I – Aria! Come back! Aria!"

But I was long gone, forcing my way through the crowded ballroom towards the door, not caring who I knocked into. Once outside, Jasson's words ringing in my ears, I moved swiftly through the Palace corridors, not caring where I was going. Occasionally one or other of my friends or acquaintances met me, and called after me, but I paid them no heed. One of the few certainties I had had as I grew up was Jasson-and-Edwin, the terrible two, the duo, the double act, best of friends. Yet Jasson had spoken as if he hated Edwin, no, _despised_ him.

I found myself in the Library, with its slightly musty smell of old leather and parchment, and the safe soft sense of the old fashioned velvet window-seat cushions and dark furniture. Finally coming to a halt, I crumpled onto a corner seat, my head spinning. By the time my father found me, I was asleep.

Wow. I don't believe this. A third chapter! And I'm not even that bored with it! I have given up telling people to review, and have come up with a new method.

Ready? It's a pretty good plan, I warn you.

Once you've read it, tell _someone else_ to read it. And _then_ review. Whaddya think? I think it's pretty bloody fantastic, to be honest.

Lullabee


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